In one sense, the nearness of those searching for him doesn’t matter. The likelihood of his being apprehended within the next few minutes would be just as great if he were a thousand miles from here.
His mother has often told him that if you’re clever, cunning, and bold, you can hide in plain sight as confidently as in the most remote and well-disguised bolt-hole. Neither geography nor distance is the key to survivaclass="underline" Only time matters. The longer he stays free and hidden, the less likely that he will ever be found.
Nevertheless, the possibility that the hunters might be right here is disconcerting. Their nearness makes him nervous, and when he’s nervous, he’s less likely to be clever or cunning, or bold; and they will find him, know him, whether he’s in plain sight or hiding in a cave a thousand feet from sunlight.
Hesitantly, he eases open the driver’s door and slips out of the SUV. onto the bed of the transport.
He listens. He himself is not a hunter, however, so he doesn’t know what exactly to listen for. The action at the pump islands is a far away grumble. Muffled country music, oscillating between faint and fainter, seasons the night with enchantment, the landlocked Western equivalent of a siren’s irresistible song drifting across a night-shrouded sea with a promise of wonder and companionship.
The ramped bed of the auto transport isn’t much wider than the Explorer, too narrow to allow the dog to land safely in a leap from the driver’s seat, which he now occupies. If in fact he had jumped from the porch roof at the Hammond farmhouse, surely the mutt can clear the truck entirely, avoiding the vertical supports between the decks of the open cargo trailer, and spring directly to the parking Id’ However, if he possesses the agility to accomplish this feat, he doesn’t possess the confidence. Peering down from his perch, the dog cocks his head left, then right, makes a pathetic sound of anxiety, stifles the whine as though he recognizes the need for stealth, and stares beseechingly at his master.
The boy lifts the dog out of the Explorer, as earlier he had lifted him up and in, not without considerable contortion. He teeters but keeps his balance and puts his shaggy burden down on the floor of the transport.
As the boy eases shut the door of the Explorer, the mongrel pads toward the back of the auto carrier, following the ramped bed. He is waiting immediately behind the truck when his master arrives.
The ears arc pricked, the head lifted, the nose twitching. The fluffy tail, usually a proud plume, is held low.
Although domesticated, this animal nevertheless remains to some degree a hunter, as the boy is not, and he has the instincts of a survivor. His wariness must be taken seriously. Evidently, something in the night smells threatening or at least suspicious.
Currently, no vehicles are either entering or leaving the lot. No truckers are in sight across the acres of blacktop.
Although a couple hundred people are nearby, this place in this moment of time seems as lonely as any crater on the moon.
From the west, out of the desert, arises a light breeze, warm but not hot, carrying the silicate scent of sand and the faint alkaline fragrance of the hardy plants that grow in parched lands.
The boy is reminded of home, which he will most likely never see again. A pleasant nostalgia wells within him, too quickly swells into a gush of homesickness, inevitably reminding him of the terrible loss of his family, and suddenly he sways as though physically battered by the flood of grief that storms through his heart.
Later. Tears are for later. Survival comes first. He can almost hear his mother’s spirit urging him to control himself and to leave the grieving for safer times.
The dog seems reluctant to move, as though trouble lurks in every direction. His tail lowers further, wrapping partly around his right hind leg.
The motel and the diner lay out of sight to the east, beyond the ranks of parked vehicles, marked by the fiery glow of red neon. The boy sets off in that direction.
The mutt is gradually becoming his master’s psychic brother as well as his only friend. He shakes off his hesitancy and trots at the boy’s side.
“Good pup,” the boy whispers.
They pass behind eight semis and are at the back of a ninth when a low growl from the dog halts the boy. Even if the animal’s sudden anxiety hadn’t been strong enough to feel, the nearest of the tall pole lamps provides sufficient sour yellow light to reveal the animal’s raised hackles.
The dog peers at something in the oily Muck gloom under the big truck. Instead of growling again, he glances up at the boy and mewls entreatingly.
Trusting the wisdom of his brother-becoming, the boy drops to his knees, braces one hand against the trailer, and squints into the pooled darkness. He can see nothing in the murk between the parallel sets of tires.
Then movement catches his eye, not immediately under the rig but along the side of it, in the lamplit passageway between this vehicle and the next. A pair of cowboy boots, blue jeans tucked in the tops: Someone is walking beside the trailer, approaching the back where the boy kneels.
Most likely this is an ordinary driver, unaware of the boyhunt that is being conducted discreetly but with great resources and urgency across the West. He’s probably returning from a late dinner, with a thermos full of fresh coffee, ready to hit the road again.
Another pair of boots follows the first. Two men, not just one. Neither talks, both move purposefully.
Maybe ordinary drivers, maybe not.
The young fugitive drops flat to the pavement and slips under the trailer, and the dog crawls beside him into hiding. They huddle together, turning their heads to watch the passing boots, and the boy is oddly excited because this is a situation encountered in all the adventure stories that he loves.
Admittedly, the character of his excitement is different from what he feels when he experiences such exploits vicariously, through the pages of books. Young heroes of adventure stories, from Treasure bland to The Amber Spyglass, are never eviscerated, decapitated, torn limb from limb, and immolated — which is a possible fate that he envisions for himself too clearly to embrace fully the traditional boys’-book spirit of derring-do. His excitement has a nervous edge sharper than anything Huckleberry Finn was required to feel, a darker quality. He’s a boy nonetheless, and he’s virtually programmed by nature to be thrilled by events that test his pluck, his fortitude, and his wits.
The two men reach the back of the trailer, where they pause, evidently surveying the parking lot, perhaps not quite able to recall where they left their rig. They remain silent, us though listening for the telltale sounds that only born hunters can perceive and properly interpret.
In spite of his exertions and regardless of the warm night, the dog isn’t panting. He lies motionless against his master’s side.
Good pup.
Instrument of nostalgia, scented with desert fragrances that remind the boy of home, the breeze is also a broom to the blacktop, sweeping along puffs of dust, spidery twists of dry desert grass, and scraps of litter. With a soft rustle, a loosely crumpled wad of paper twirls lazily across the pavement and comes to rest against the toe of one of the boots. The parking-lot light is bright enough that from a distance of a few feet, the boy can see this is debris with value: a five-dollar bill.
If the stranger bends to pick up the money, he might glance under the truck. …
No. Even if the man drops to one knee, instead of simply bending down, his head will be well above the bottom of the trailer. He won’t inadvertently get a glimpse of a boy-shape-dog-shape cowering in the shadows cast by the rig.
After trembling against the boot toe, the five-dollar bill blows free… and twirls under the truck.
In the gloom, the boy loses track of the money. He’s focused intently on the cowboy boots.